


You Play the Fool While I Play the Clown

by Erushi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Background Victuuri - Freeform, DJ Otabek Altin, Fae Yurio, Incubus Katsuki Yuuri, Lord of the Hunt Victor, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, OtaYuri Week 2017, Sex During Heat, Urban Fantasy, Wizard Otabek Altin, Yakov and Lilia are Oberon and Titania, Yurio is a Russian Fairy (of Cats), going into heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10030409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erushi/pseuds/Erushi
Summary: An urban fantasy in which Otabek is a consulting wizard, Yuri is a member of the fae, and together theyfight crimehave to find the mythical Grand Prix medal before another person dies.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _The Ubiquitous Mr Lovegrove_ by Dead Can Dance.
> 
> You build me up then you knock me down.  
> You play the fool while I play the clown.

_My name is Otabek Altin, and I’m a wizard._

_No, I don’t mean the sort of wizard from_ Harry Potter _. There’s no letter from Hogwarts delivered by owl, no Honeydukes stocked with magical sweets, no global menagerie of fantastical beasts and a nifty guide on where to find them._

_I’m a consulting wizard. It says so on my name card. It says so on my listing in the phonebook, too. Most times, people call me up to ask me if I’m being serious. Some of them even ask me what it is that I really do._

_That’s usually when the_ Harry Potter _jokes come in._

 _Bloody Harry Potter. The worst he had to worry about was Voldemort. I bet he didn’t have to deal with loup-garou_.

=-=-=

Just for the record, Otabek really hated loup-garou.

They weren’t werewolves. Werewolves were still, at their core, human. They thought like humans, and felt like humans. They just had that little bit of extra which enabled them to transform into a wolf too.

Loup-garou, on the other hand, were anything but human. They might have once been, and they might still at times walk like a human did, on two legs, but that was where their veneer of humanity ended. They were vicious, they were bloodthirsty, they revelled in every kill, and they never stopped hunting their prey once they had caught a scent. Throw in the occasional abduction of a virgin every now and then for the pack-alpha’s new bride, and, well.

Otabek stayed low in his crouch amidst the branches of the giant oak. Form his vantage point, the three loup-garou had fanned out, guards still on the prowl, their noses lifted to the air as they tried to scent his position.

Did he mention that bit about how loup-garou never stopped hunting their prey once they had caught a scent? Yeah. Pretty much.

Grimly, he cocked his gun, and hoped, very hard, that his concealment spell was still working just fine.

Overhead, the full moon finally rose from behind its flimsy veil of cloud. On cue, the howling started in the clearing just ahead, building in pitch and volume. It was the signal for the ritual to start.

It was also Otabek’s signal to move.

He dropped his shields. Instantly, as one, the loup-garou jerked their heads in his direction.

Otabek raised his gun and fired. One guard fell, a silver bullet cleanly through his head. Leap off the branch, squeeze of a trigger, and another guard collapsed just as Otabek landed softly on the ground. The second guard clawed at his chest where the silver had found its mark.

The third lunged in his direction. Otabek dove to the side, tucking and rolling out of the way. Vicious claws narrowly missed his face. Without thinking, he corralled his energy, and let fly.

“ _Incendio_.”

The third loup-garou burst into flame.

Otabek climbed back to his feet, cursing. This was bad. He still had a whole pack to take out, and a damsel in distress to rescue. He couldn’t afford to waste his energy on showy spells. Except –

In the clearing, a girl screamed.

He was running out of time. Another muttered spell, another shield – this time to mask him from both scent _and_ sight, and so much harder to hold – he edged his way into the clearing, and through the circle of loup-garou now lying prostrate around a makeshift altar.

How mind-numbingly stereotypical. He almost snorted.

A girl was strapped down on the altar, naked, struggling, clearly terrified. Carefully, Otabek crept behind the alpha, who was preparing to mount his new, and very unwilling, bride. He trained his gun to the alpha’s head, and dropped his shields.

“Terribly sorry to break up this party that you’ve got going,” he said, and shot.

=-=-=

Five hours later, it was daylight, and Otabek was exhausted.

On the bright side, he had saved the girl and delivered her to her parents, who had been so grateful that they’d pressed more than the agreed fee on him. He did genuinely like leaving his clients happy, almost as he liked having some money in his bank account. Consulting wizardry rarely ever paid well.

On the not-so-bright side, his palms and knees were scraped, he had a nasty gash across his cheek, and he was going to have to write off this particular leather jacket as a lost cause. It had been one of his favourite ones, too.

On top of all that, his energy levels were inconveniently low. He doubted that he’d be able to do more than light a candle. It would be best if he headed back to his apartment now, to sleep the sleep of the weary victorious. Perhaps a quick stop at the 24-hour diner along the way, for some food to raise his sugar levels.

Of course, because the universe hated him, his cellphone just had to ring right then. Detective Celestino Cialdini, Special Investigation Unit. The one unit in the City's Police Force where all unsolved cases went, cases which the Mundanes on the street were better off never knowing.

For a moment, he debated letting the call go into voice mail. But his retainer with the Special Investigation Unit was one of the things which got his bills paid when the other jobs were thin.

With a sigh, he took the call. Then, he swung a leg over the seat of his motorbike, and headed for the city morgue.

“Ciao ciao.” Celestino was, as always, disgustingly chipper despite the hour.

Otabek grunted what he thought might pass for a _Good morning_.

“Rough start to the day?” Phichit Chulanot, Celestino’s deputy, offered him a flimsy, paper cup of coffee with a sympathetic grin. It was the cheap, sour stuff you got from the vending machine, and yet, as he knocked it back, the hot liquid a burning river down his throat, it did the job of blunting the edge of his tiredness. Otabek swilled the last of the coffee in his mouth with a grimace, and mentally named Phichit his favourite person for the day.

“You have no idea,” he said as he let them usher him into the examination room. “What do you have for me?”

What they had turned out to be four bodies, all of them seemingly intact, save for the fact that they were all also drained of blood.

“We thought it might be vampires at first,” Phichit offered, while Otabek cursorily examined one of the bodies, “but we didn’t find any puncture marks. No sign of any cause of death, for that matter. Or any sign of a struggle at all.”

“Where were the bodies found?” Otabek asked absently as he let his eyes slip close, extending his senses. Carefully, he teased a thread of perception _into_ the nearest corpse, a middle-aged man dressed for a corporate job and growing more than a little round in the middle, seeking any trace of a magical cause, a psychic signature – and stuttered to a halt.

More than blood, the deceased was missing his _essence_.

A shaky examination of the three corpses revealed the same.

“The bodies were dumped in different places all over the city,” Phichit was saying. “We could pass you the files later, if you like. The duty examiner at the morgue noticed the similarities, and called us in.”

“Maybe later,” Otabek murmured absently. It was impossible to get a psychic read on the bodies, any trace of the perpetuator’s aura viciously masked by a swirling, grey miasma. Shielding work at its finest, from a spell he had never encountered before.

Otabek had a bad feeling about this.

Celestino’s cellphone rang. He took the call outside the examination room, and when he returned, he clapped an apologetic hand on Otabek’s shoulder. “I have to go,” he said, addressing Otabek and Phichit both. “HQ’s being a mess, as always. I’ll leave Phichit to brief you.” And with that, he was gone.

Phichit looked at him expectantly. Otabek pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried to think. The shielding spell aside, there was only one community which drained their victim’s essence. Of course, if you asked them, they’d politely object to the notion of _victims_.

“Phichit, will your roommate be in today?”

Phichit blinked, clearly not expecting the diection of Otabek’s enquiry. “Yuuri? He should be. His shifts don’t usually start until the evening.”

Otabek nodded. “I may drop by this afternoon to see him. I hope you don’t mind.”

“He’s taken,” Phichit warned. “He has a boyfriend. Comes over almost every day.” Then, “What about the case?”

Otabek waved his hand casually, _I know, I know_. “I’ll need to think about the case, maybe make a few enquiries. I’ll call Celestino and you up when I have something.”

“Don’t take too long.” Phichit sighed. “Something tells me that we’re looking at more bodies turning up.”

“Yeah?”

“Call it a detective’s instinct.”

=-=-=

Otabek stepped out onto the street again, and blinked in the too-bright sunlight. It was nearly noon. He had not slept in hours, and he could feel exhaustion seeping into his bones.

His stomach growled, reminding him of other bodily needs.

With a sigh, he began walking in the direction of a sandwich and deli shop which he knew was just a street away. He’d be no use to anyone as a wizard if he didn’t have any stores left to cast a simple spell. At least the shop did a pretty wicked pastrami and mustard on rye.

A white cat darted across the pavement, leaping over his feet and making he stumble. He caught himself on a lamp post and swore.

“Watch it, you idiot.”

A slight, blond figure darted out after the cat, pausing only to glare at Otabek.

Otabek returned the youth’s glare coolly. “Better catch your cat before it gets run over by a truck.”

The youth snorted. His eyes, Otabek couldn’t help but notice, were very, very green. “He won’t,” said the youth. “Cats have more sense than you humans do.”

Otabek raised a brow. There was something –

But the youth had turned away, and gone after the cat. Otabek shrugged, and carried on to the sandwich shop, round the corner and five shops to the right.

Once again, his feet stumbled to a halt. “Yakov. Lilia. I was not expecting to see you here.”

The king and queen of the city’s fae court were sitting at one of the tiny tables the entrance of the shop, a small heap of half-eaten sandwiches laid out on the crinkled wax paper between them.

“Our favourite wizard,” Yakov said as Otabek approached. Lilia set her paper cup down.

“It’s not often that I see you in the mortal world,” Otabek returned.

“We heard you had taken a case,” Lilia said. “It is of some interest to us.”

“I can’t say I know what you’re referring to.”

Yakov harrumphed, while Lila arched an eyebrow. “Four dead bodies?” she said, and her voice was coldly amused.

Otabek fought the urge to cross his arms around his front defensively. “Did you have a hand in that?”

“Don’t worry,” said Yakov, his voice gruff. “In this, we’re on the same side.”

“You seem to already know more than me about my case,” Otabek observed wryly. “What can you tell me?”

“Just one thing: the Grand Prix medal.” Lila’s smile was serene as she stood.

“That tells me nothing,” Otabek pointed out.

“We’ll be sending one of ours to assist you. He’ll tell you what you need to know.” Yakov pushed back his chair and stood too, moving around the table to join Lilia at her side. He offered her his arm, and she took it.

“When?” Otabek asked, but they were gone.

Sighing again, he made his way into the shop. At least he’d be able to get something to eat now.

=-=-=

Otabek rang the doorbell to Phichit’s apartment and waited. And waited.

Suspicious _thumps_ and moans sounded from behind the thin, wooden door. There was a gasp, a choked cry. Then, a peal of embarrassed laughter.

He rang the doorbell again.

Footsteps. The door flung open, and Yuuri leaned a hip against the doorframe as he looked at him. His hair was dishevelled and his cheeks flushed. “Can I help you, wizard?”

“I’ve some questions. Thought you might know the answers.”

Yuuri studied him. “Not a social call, I take it,” he said eventually.

Otabek shrugged.

Yuuri sighed, straightening. The front of his bathrobe parted down to the centre, where it was held barely in place by a loosely knotted belt. He stepped aside, ushering Otabek in. “Come on in, then. Don’t forget to take off your shoes.”

Otabek toed off his shoes in the hallway, and politely avoided looking at the trail of red marks which had been enthusiastically sucked and bitten into Yuuri’s skin.

“Oh, Victor’s here too,” Yuuri announced unnecessarily as he sauntered through the living room and towards the kitchenette. “I hope that’s alright with you.”

“I already guessed,” Otabek replied, trailing Yuuri into the living room where Victor was indeed lounging on a sofa, in a similar state of dishevelment, if a little more dressed with a pair of trousers on, even though his shirt was unbuttoned. A giant dog lay across Victor’s legs, and Victor was absently patting its fur.

Sometimes, Otabek wondered if Phichit knew that he was sharing his apartment with an incubus. Or that said incubus was dating a Lord of the Great Hunt.

“Coffee’s fine?” Yuuri called out.

“Sure,” said Otabek. He dropped into an armchair, and accepted the cup when it was handed to him, sipping slowly while Yuuri moved to settle beside Victor on the sofa. Victor threw an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, drawing Yuuri closer towards him and nuzzling Yuuri’s neck, even as he slanted a cool look in Otabek’s direction.

Otabek set the cup down on the coffee table. He would have to be careful. He was fairly confident that his shield was still working just fine against an incubus’ charms, but pissing off a Lord of the Great Hunt was never wise, particularly when said Lord was feeling particularly protective of his boyfriend.  

“So, what is it?” Yuuri asked, his voice hitching at the tail-end of the question. He batted Victor away half-heartedly.

Otabek watched as Victor placed a final kiss on Yuuri’s jaw before sitting back again, a challenging smirk toying on the corners of his lips. Then, he took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers. “I have four bodies missing their blood and their essence. You know what that could mean.”

“Can’t be anyone of my kind,” Yuuri said, shrugging. “You know we don’t do blood. Have you tried asking any of the vampires you know?”

“No wounds,” said Otabek mildly. “And you know as well as I do that only incubi and succubi feed on their vic – partner’s essence.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow, but otherwise let Otabek’s slip go. “We don’t drain them to death. It’s part of the Accord.”

“The Accord can always be broken.” Not always, and not often. Very rarely, in fact. The Accord was what kept the competing powers of the city’s supernatural community in a fragile balance, and what kept everyone from detection by most Mundanes, ensuring peace. Except, of course, for the few within the community who disagreed with the balance, and sought to re-forge it in their favour.

“Not by any of us,” Yuuri replied. He showed no sign of uncertainty. “Why should we? It’s to our favour that the Accord stays. The less the Mundanes know of us, the more we have to feed.” He shrugged eloquently.

Otabek sighed. Well, it had been worth a shot. “What do you know about the Grand Prix medal?”

“The what?” asked Yuuri, just as Victor’s brows rose.

Bingo. “You know something, don’t you?” Otabek asked, angling towards Victor.

“Only about the medal,” Victor answered laconically.

“What can you tell me?” Otabek asked sharply, leaning forward. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Yuuri looking enquiringly at his boyfriend.

“If I tell you, would you go?” Victor drawled. He slipped a hand beneath the hem of Yuuri’s bathrobe, trailing it up Yuuri’s thigh, his intent clear.

Otabek felt his cheeks prickle. He kept his eyes firmly trained on Victor’s face. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll decide.”

Victor laughed. “Only because you amuse me.” He pursed his lips, but did not remove his hand from between Yuuri’s thighs. “Only bits of myth and legend, really. The Grand Prix medal was forged in the Heavenly Wars. No one knows who forged it, or why. It gives its wielder power that corresponds to the wielder’s own. In the right hands, it could even be used to tear down God’s shields.”

“That’s all very fascinating,” Otabek cut in, “but I’d prefer something more useful.”

“I was getting there.” Victor looked at him reproachfully. “It is said that for a wielder to unlock the medal’s potential, six sacrifices have to be made. The medal will consume them, body and soul. And when the medal has had its fill, it would awake.”

Otabek sucked in a breath. “Six sacrifices.”

“Looks like you already have four,” Victor remarked dryly. “I suggest you find the medal before the bodies of the final two show up.”

=-=-=

Night time found Otabek where he usually was, at History Maker.

To the Mundanes, History Maker was just another a club in the heart of the city, louder and perhaps glitzier than most, and certainly rather quirkily named, but with a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , possibly even a faint undercurrent of danger, that ensured an ever-growing crowd of party-goers and thrill-seekers alike.

To the supernatural community, the Maker, as it was more commonly known, was neutral territory, a place where one could go for a bit of bit of drink and dance, or to cut a deal, without any fear of an attack. And if a Mundane happened to ask – nicely – of course to be nibbled on, well, there would always be someone happy to oblige.

“Would we be seeing you tonight at the Maker?” Yuuri had asked that afternoon as he had shown Otabek out, and Otabek had nodded.

To him, the Maker was more than just neutral ground. It was also where, on occasion, he played disk jockey every few nights.

What? Like he said before, consulting wizardry rarely ever paid well.

It helped that he enjoyed this particularly job almost as much, that it was a practically a hobby.

That it had never resulted in him getting all torn up and bloody, and hardly required any magical energy besides the occasional nudge to enhance the heady mood of the dance floor, was certainly a bonus.

The floor was packed tonight, Mundanes and supernaturals grinding against each other to the beat. A few had climbed onto the bar-top, and were gyrating to the rhythm of the pounding music while those in their immediate vicinity cat-called and cheered them on.

Otabek’s gaze drifted absently towards the dancers on bar as he cued the next track. One of them appeared particularly popular, his pale blond hair dyed pink-blue-green by the strobe lights, his lithe body undulating in time with the boom of the bass. Otabek watched as the dancer’s hands stroked his hands tantalising down the length of his torso, coming to rest at slim hips, framing his groin.

He felt his cock stir.

From across the club, the dancer looked up in the direction of the DJ’s booth. Their gazes caught, held. The dancer licked his lips.

Otabek tore his gaze away from the bar, and busied himself the panel of knobs and sliders before him.

Four songs later, and he had almost forgotten the dancer.

That was when, of course, a slim body pressed tightly against the length of his.

“Saw you looking,” a voice purred, and Otabek jerked around.

It was the dancer. It was –

“Aren’t you a bit too young to be in a club like this?” Otabek blurted against the creeping flush on his cheeks. He was suddenly grateful for the darkness of the club.

“Who said anything about me being underage?” the blond youth from the morning retorted. His smile was mocking, even as he cocked his head to the side, apparently studying Otabek in turn. “So you’re the hero of Kazakhstan.”

“Kazakhstan was a long time ago,” Otabek retorted automatically, his voice sharp. It was a long time ago. He had been new to the whole wizarding gig then, still blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked behind every spell and every smile. Kazakhstan had been bloody.

“All the same,” the youth said, reaching out to run a finger down Otabek’s chest, and Otabek forced himself to stay still, “I guess you’re not just a regular stupid human.”

“Who are you?” he shot back.

“Yuri Plisetsky at your service.” Yuri’s grin was sharp, wicked, deadly.

“You’re fae,” Otabek said, more a statement than a question. “You’re the one Yakov and Lilia said they’d send.”

“I am,” Yuri confirmed. “Now, let’s blow this joint. Time’s a-ticking, and we have a medal to find.”

“I can’t just – ” Otabek broke off. “I have to finish this set.”

Yuri stared at him. “Fine,” he said dismissively, turning back to make his way towards the press of dancers, hips encased in tight leather and swaying with every step. “I’ll meet you outside the club when you’re done.”

For the remainder of his set, Otabek carefully avoided looking at the dance floor.

=-=-=

Afterwards, Otabek took Yuri to the morgue.

“The bodies,” he said unnecessarily, gesturing at the draped figures on the examination tables.

“I already know about them,” Yuri said dismissively, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his leather trousers. He had thrown a hoodie over his black clubbing leathers – leopard print, Otabek noted with amusement, but it suited him somehow, Yuri’s feline grace and predatory prowl.

This close beside him, Otabek could smell the heady musk of Yuri’s sweat from the dance floor.  

Grimly, he forced himself focus instead on the smells of the cold room, the sterile sting of alcohol, and overripe scent of decay. “Have you tried to read their auras?” he asked.

“What about them?”

“Look,” he said, tapping his forehead in invitation. Yuri’s fingers rested lightly on his temples.

Otabek closed his eyes, and _looked_. Again, the grey miasma rose in his third sight, hovering over each and every one of the corpses, masking any other psychic trace. “That,” he said, stepping back and breaking the connection. “I was wondering if you might know something about it.”

“Blood magic,” Yuri spat, shuddering. He looked ill. “That, and something more. Something fae, I think, and old. Very old.” His expression was grim. “I would need to let Yakov know that we may have a traitor in our midst. Someone who cares little for our laws, and for the Accord.”

“But can you remove it?” Otabek pressed.

Yuri made a moue of disgust. “I can,” he conceded. “Or at least, pull it off enough for you to get a read of the signatures underneath.”

“That would be enough.” He closed his eyes again. This time, gold filaments laced through the grey, coalescing into a net, tugging, pulling. Gradually, bit by bit, the grey heaved, lifted.

“Got you,” Otabek hissed, locking his senses on the curl of purple and black just beneath.

Yuri exhaled gustily. The gold net disappeared, and the grey miasma snapped back into place.

Otabek remained as he was for a moment more, committing the purple-black aura to his memory. Then, he opened his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said, heading for the exit.

“Where to?” Yuri asked, keeping pace easily.

Otabek smiled humourlessly. “My place,” he said. “I think it’s time for a tracing spell.”

=-=-=

Once back in his apartment, Otabek busied himself with gathering the necessary materials for the tracing spell: candles, salt, incense, a lump of quartz, powdered black sand, and a giant, foldable paper map of the city, the sort printed for enthusiastic tourists. (Google Maps had its uses on a day-to-day basis, he reflected wryly, but in magic, the old ways sometimes worked the best.)

Materials in hand, he proceeded to clear a space on the floor of his living room candles and salt to lay a circle, incense to purify, quartz to focus his energies. He tried not to pay Yuri too much mind while Yuri explored the rest of his apartment, peering curiously at this and that, lifting the occasional object up for a closer examination. Like a cat, Otabek, thought with a surprising rush of fondness, and had to bite down on his smile as he spread the map out before him.

As though sensing the change in the atmosphere – which he probably did, Otabek thought ruefully – Yuri emerged from Otabek’s bedroom. He paused outside the circle, cocking his head slightly to the side as he studied Otabek’s handiwork. Then, he nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I’ll keep watch,” he offered, retreating to the lone, overstuffed couch in the living room.

Otabek nodded. It was a relief to know that there was someone watching his back, that he no longer only had his magical alarms and shields to warn him off approaching dangers while he was focussing on a particular spell.

He just wished he could always have someone all the time.

Annoyed with himself now, Otabek squared his shoulders. Maudlin thoughts would not get them their perpetuator. Working quickly, he sprinkled the black sand over the map, until every square inch of the paper was covered. Then, he centred himself, and pushed out.

A burnished bronze mist rose over the black sand, the colour of his own aura. He willed his power to spread out, to seek the purple-black aura from the morgue. He remembered its texture, its taste, its scent, cold and metallic, tinged with blood and fear. Elusive, slippery, twisting and turning, darting just out of his reach, but he reached out, stretched, strained, there, there, _there_.

On the map, the black sand began to shift, coalescing in particular spots.

Eventually, Otabek opened his eyes again. He felt light-headed. He blinked, but his vision remained stubbornly uncooperative, the world a cloudy, static grey with intermittent bursts of white light. He tried to stand, fumbled, and nearly collapsed.

Strong fingers caught his elbow. They guided him towards his couch, tugging until he sat.

“Idiot,” Yuri hissed. “When was the last time you had eaten anything?”

 _This afternoon,_ Otabek tried to answer, but his tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth.

From the direction of the kitchenette, he heard the sound of running water, followed by the metallic clink of a spoon against the side of a mug.

“Here, drink this,” Yuri said, shoving the mug into Otabek’s hands. “Moron,” he added, seemingly for good measure.

Blindly, obediently, Otabek raised the mug to his lips and sipped. Sugar water, more sugar than water. He choked.

“Drink,” Yuri said, his voice insistent. The pad of his thumb swiped gently across Otabek’s lower lip. “What kind of idiot does a spell like that when his energy stores are low?”

Otabek sipped at the disgustingly sweet liquid. Gradually, his vision cleared. Yuri was seated beside him on the couch, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes large and worried in his elfin face.

God, he was pretty.

Yuri’s brow dropped into a scowl when he realised that Otabek was staring, and he plucked the now-empty mug brusquely from Otabek’s hands. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

He watched as Yuri stood to place the mug into the kitchenette sink. “You’re welcome.” He looked contemplative when he stepped back. “You should probably sleep,” he said, his tone oddly unsure.

Otabek waved his hand in dismissal. “We don’t have any time.” He held his hand out. “The map.”

Yuri hesitated, crossing his arms. “What if you collapse again? I’m not carrying your heavy ass.”

“The map,” Otabek insisted.

“Fine,” said Yuri, throwing down his arms with a slight huff. But the corners of his lips twitched, and his expression was coolly appraising as he dusted the rest of the sand off the map and handed the map to Otabek. “You surprise me, wizard.”

Otabek let the comment pass, peering instead at the outcome of his tracing spell. He was dimly aware of Yuri moving around him to take a look, of Yuri propping the point of his chin on Otabek’s shoulder. Yuri’s hair tickled where it brushed against the side of his neck, and for a moment, it all seemed natural, like they had been doing this forever.

The sand had burnt its way into five spots on the map, scattered across the city. Four of the locations, he knew – they were where, according to the files which Phichit had let him read at the Special Investigation offices, the four bodies had been found.

The fifth, on the other hand –

“Georgi Popovich,” he breathed.

“Who?”

“He’s a warlock,” Otabek elaborated. “Specialises in procuring rare, magical artefacts for a fee. If anyone would know about the medal, it’s him.” He frowned pensively. “Can’t say that I’ve heard of him dabbling with blood magic, but I guess it isn’t something you make public.”

Yuri eased forward and picked up the map, studying it intently. Eventually, he looked up. “Does this warlock have dealings with my kind?”

Otabek shrugged. “I won’t be surprised.”

Yuri straightened and sauntered towards the door. “Let’s go,” he called over his shoulder.

Shrugging again, Otabek scooped up his leather jacket, and followed Yuri out.

=-=-=

No one answered the door.

Otabek jabbed the doorbell again. Then, for good measure, he rapped his knuckles sharply on the wood too.

Beside him, Yuri shifted restlessly.

Otabek sighed. Carefully, he extended his senses – and tensed.

“Someone was here before us.” Like any magic user with half an ounce of sense, Georgi Popovich had warded his threshold.

Unfortunately for Popovich, someone had blasted right through those wards.

“Unfriendly?” Yuri asked sharply.

“Maybe.” The shredded remnants of Popovich’s wards brushed against Otabek’s shields, wispy, flimsy tatters. Otabek exhaled slowly. Then, he dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out his set of lock-picks. “Keep watch, would you?” he murmured absently as he went to work.

The door swung open. “Wait,” Otabek started, but Yuri made an impatient noise and darted forward. Otabek gave up and trailed after him warily.

Inside, Popovich’s studio was a mess. All signs pointed towards a struggle: a lamp on the floor, an overturned chair, a broken vase. Books had been swept off their shelves, flung; they lay scattered on the carpeted floor, willy-nilly, their pages torn.

Of Popovich there was no sign.

Yuri had gone still in the middle of the room. They’re still here.”

Wordlessly, Otabek gathered his power, allowing it to pool in his palms, ready to be cast at a moment’s notice.

“Upstairs,” Yuri hissed, his chin jerking in the direction of the staircase in a corner which led, it appeared, to a loft. “Can you feel it?”

Otabek nodded.

They made their way cautiously towards the base of the staircase. This close, and there was no missing it now: the angry swirl of purple and black just ahead.

Yuri stepped onto the stairs. From the corner of Otabek’s vision, something flickered.

“ _Contego_!” he yelled, slamming Yuri to the ground. Instinctively, he curled his body around Yuri’s. His shields snapped up around them both, only just barely, only just enough, as the wave of magic roared over them. Time stretched, lengthened. Otabek’s world narrowed: the weight of magic pressing against his shields, hungry and heavy and _furious_ ; Yuri, tucked beneath his body, trembling and unexpectedly fragile.

Eventually, the pressure against his shields eased and faded away. Otabek heaved himself to his feet, his limbs stiff from being cramped in a tight ball. He stretched, then offered Yuri a hand. Yuri’s fingers gripped tightly around his wrist as he stood. Otabek left Yuri slumped against the bannister, and climbed the stairs one careful step at a time to the loft.

As he suspected, the loft was clean.

“It was a trap,” he announced as he made his way down again.

Yuri grunted.

He had not moved at all from the bannister, Otabek realised with a start.

“Yuri,” he began, and faltered. _Are you alright?_ seemed a ridiculous thing to ask when Yuri was clearly in a state of anything but; when Yuri’s head was bowed towards his chest, the set of his shoulders tense, his body shivering.

Slowly, Yuri lifted his head. “Wizard,” he said, still coolly imperious even as another tremor wrecked his body, “take me back to yours.”

=-=-=

That had been five hours ago.

Yuri had gone straight to Otabek’s bedroom and shut the door. He had not emerged since.

Now, Otabek hovered outside his bedroom uncertainly, feeling oddly like a stranger despite being in his own home.

He raised a fist, hesitated, then knocked tentatively on his own damned bedroom door. “Yuri.”

Silence answered him.

“Yuri,” he tried again, louder this time.

Again, there was no response.

Otabek exhaled slowly and counted to three. He reached for the doorknob, and was surprised, but pleased, to discover that it had not been locked. He turned it, and pushed the door open cautiously.

His bedroom was dark, the lights His switched off, his curtains drawn. He heard Yuri before he saw him, his tiny hitches of breath and quiet moans startlingly loud in the stillness of the room.

“Yuri,” he repeated. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out Yuri’s form, curled on his bed, the curve of his back towards the door, his knees tucked towards his chest. He reached out to grasp at Yuri’s shoulder, turning him around. “Yuri, are you –” He stuttered to a halt.

Yuri moaned again as he fisted his cock. His other hand was reached behind, his fingers buried in the shadows between the cleft of his thighs. Yuri’s back arched against Otabek’s bedsheets – rumbled and sweat-soaked, Otabek realised numbly – and his hips thrusted into the air, into where the hand with which he had been desperately jacking off, and then back towards the hand which he had been using to finger himself open, seemingly undecided between the two and utterly wanton.

All at once, Otabek became conscious of the fact that he was already half-hard. He inhaled sharply. His room smelled strongly of musk, the scent thick and as heady as any fine wine.

Yuri’s eyelids fluttered open. His gaze was a fractured, crystalline green. “Wizard,” he gasped, and his lips were red and bitten, “I need you to – ” another moan as he dropped his head to the side, his face scrunching, “ – to fuck me.”

“I’m sorry?” Otabek gaped. His dick twitched in his jeans. At least one part of him was already on board with the idea, he thought with a stunned ruefulness.

“Spell,” Yuri choked. “Triggered heat.” He moaned again, the hand on his shaft slipping lower to cup his balls. “Not enough. Need – ” he broke off, and rolled to the side of the bed where Otabek was. His other hand abandoned his hole, reaching out instead to palm the cheeks of Otabek’s ass, reeling Otabek in closer to the bed, where Yuri buried his face into the denim at Otabek’s groin, nuzzling at the hardness he found there.

“I don’t un– ” Otabek faltered, because Yuri had undone his belt buckle and popped the button of his jeans.

“Cat,” Yuri said succinctly, and bit the zipper of Otabek’s jeans between his teeth, and pulled it down. “Fuck me,” he repeated, looking up at Otabek through his lashes. Then, he hooked his fingers into Otabek’s belt-loops, and yanked him onto the mattress.

Otabek landed on top of Yuri in a graceless heap, his nose buried in the crook of Yuri’s neck, his limbs askew. It didn’t seem to matter to Yuri, though, who was arching and rubbing up against him.

“Clothes”, Yuri hissed, his fingers finding the way beneath the hem of Otabek’s shirt and tugging. “Off. _Off_.”

“Wait,” Otabek choked on a gasp. Clumsy fingers fumbled his shirt up and over his shoulders. Yuri seemed to approve of the bared skin, rubbing his cheek happily on a pectoral and making a sound that could only be described as a purr.

Experimentally, Otabek reached up and thumbed at one of Yuri’s nipples. Yuri’s reaction was instant and gratifying, a whimper, high-pitched and needy, as he ground his hips up against Otabek’s. Otabek rolled the pink nub between his finger and thumb as he sucked at Yuri’s neck, taking pleasure in the stream of moans and curses that he teased out of Yuri’s mouth. When he moved his mouth to the other nipple, Yuri’s hands flew up to clutch at his back, fingers raking down the length of Otabek’s spine.

“Someone’s needy,” Otabek broke off to tease. He ran his other hand lightly down Yuri’s flank, across the curve of his ass and between his legs, where he found that Yuri was already slick and open. He raised a brow.

“Found where you kept your stuff,” Yuri informed him smugly, his words ending on a whine as he jerked his hips, and Otabek suddenly found his fingers encased in a warm, velvet heat.

“More,” Yuri choked out. “I need more.”

Experimentally, Otabek scissored his fingers. When Yuri ground into his hand encouragingly, he allowed his fingers to slip in deeper, crooking his fingers just so.

Instantly, Yuri arched with a shout. “There, fuck, right there – ”

Otabek began rubbing at the spot. He wrapped his other hand around Yuri’s cock, fingers stroking the length of the shaft, his thumb swiping at the leaking head. Beneath him, Yuri’s body writhed and strained as Yuri tried to fuck himself deeper on Otabek’s fingers in his ass, then up into Otabek’s hand where Otabek was still stroking him off. HIs hands grappled weakly at Otabek’s shoulders. “More,” he moaned. “Still need – ”

With surprising strength, he pushed Otabek back, flipping them around. Otabek fell back against the mattress with a surprised _oof_ , while Yuri threw a leg over his hips and climbed on top of him, Yuri’s expression triumphant. “There,” he purred, and seemed content for a moment for his gaze to roam appreciatively over Otabek’s torso.

Otabek returned the favour, his eyes drinking in Yuri’s slim frame thirstily, Yuri’s cock, bobbing red and hard and so very pretty between Yuri’s thighs, before lighting on the mark he had left on Yuri’s neck with possessive burst of satisfaction. He propped himself up on an elbow, and reached out with his other hand to cup the back of Yuri’s head, tangling his fingers with the fine strands of Yuri’s hair as he pulled Yuri down for a hungry, biting kiss. “Are you just going to look?” he asked as they traded breaths, “or are you going to do something about it?”

“The mouth on you,” Yuri whispered as he sank his teeth lightly into Otabek’s bottom lip, before swiping his tongue across the bruised flesh to soothe away the sting. “One day, I’ll put you in your place, and you’re going to enjoy it.” A final kiss, and he slid down Otabek’s body in a smooth, leonine motion. His hands grabbed at the waist of Otabek’s unfastened jeans, pulling the denim down roughly. He paused to smile beatifically up at Otabek, then swallowed Otabek whole.

Otabek cursed as his hips bucked. His hands flew to grasp again at the back of Yuri’s head, holding him down while Yuri traced the sensitive vein on the underside of Otabek’s cock with his tongue. He was close, so close, and he scrabbled at Yuri’s shoulders to push him away, before it all became too much.

Yuri got the hint. He gave Otabek’s cock a final suck, his cheeks hollowing obscenely, before pulling off with a wet _pop_.

“Condom,” Otabek gasped. It took him two tries before he managed to tear the foil packet open.

Then, Yuri was sinking down onto him, the both of them moaning their relief, and it was all Otabek could do but to hold on, his fingers digging hard into Yuri’s hips while Yuri rode them towards the edge. A tip, a fall, and Otabek’s world shattered into black.

=-=-=

Otabek woke to a room redolent of sex and an empty bed. The sheets beside him were still warm, however, and he guessed that it couldn’t have been too long since Yuri had awoken too. With effort, he sat up and swung his feet onto the floor, shrugging the sleep-stiffness out of his shoulders. The skin on his back stung – from when Yuri had raked his nails down Otabek’s back earlier no doubt. He suspected he might feel it again later in the shower, and the just the thought of it sent a frisson of pleasure straight to his dick.

Yuri had cleaned him up while he was passed out, Otabek realised. A goofy grin found its way onto his face, until he schooled his features back into their customary taciturn expression.

There were noises beyond the bedroom door: the splash of running water, the clink of porcelain, the whistle of a kettle, and curiously enough, the ponderous _thunk_ of the window just above Otabek’s kitchenette sink being pushed open.

Standing, he began to cast around for his clothes. His shirt was nowhere in sight, but he found his jeans by the foot of the bed. He put them on hurriedly, and padded out into the living room.

Yuri was standing by the kitchenette counter, clad in Otabek’s errant shirt and seemingly nothing else, his slim legs long and bare beneath where the hem Otabek’s shirt ended just below the curve of his ass. He had a mug clasped between his hands, and his head was bent as he spoke, oddly enough, to a cat on the kitchenette counter.

Otabek blinked. “That’s probably unsanitary,” he remarked, leaning against a wall.

Yuri ignored him. He scratched the cat behind its ears, then stood back as the cat swished its tail and darted out through the open window. Then, he shut the window again, and turned towards Otabek. “I wasn’t sure whether you preferred coffee or tea, so I made you both.”

“I can see that,” Otabek replied, enjoying the way his shirt hung from Yuri’s shoulders, far too large and loose. Yuri shifted his weight, and Otabek thought he caught a glimpse of a pair of boxers, an incongruous flash of leopard print. “Feeling better?”

Yuri took a sip from his mug, and ran his fingers through his hair with a slight wince. “Yeah. I think the heat’s mostly cycled through. Maybe a couple more times today, and I’d be good.” He paused, his cheeks pinking. “I should thank you, wizard.”

“Otabek,” Otabek corrected, pushing off the wall and stepping past Yuri to help himself to the coffee pot. “Unless you’d prefer that I keep calling you a _fairy_.”

Yuri blinked, and laughed. “ _Fae_ , not fairy,” he sniped, but he was still smiling, and Otabek figured that counted for something.

“So what do we do now?” he asked. “Is it wise for us to head out again while you’re still feeling the effects of the spell?”

“Probably not,” Yuri grimaced. “I’ve put the cats onto it, though.”

Otabek felt his brows lift. “The cats?”

“Sure, cats,” Yuri shrugged. “They’re everywhere. They see and hear and smell everything. And they’re incredibly smart too.” He grinned, suddenly boyish. “Why else would they be my animals?”

Otabek found himself grinning too. “Sure,” he agreed easily.

“They’ll let me know once they find something,” Yuri said. He placed his mug on the kitchenette counter, then reached out to pluck Otabek’s mug from his hands, placing that on the counter too. “In the meanwhile,” he purred, “I’m still in heat, and I can think of a number of other things we could do.”

Otabek went willingly.

=-=-=

_My name is Otabek Altin, and I’m a wizard._

_My life isn’t all a sparkly fantasy like the_ Harry Potter _novels. The supernatural world is full of bad guys who are a lot of worse than some megalomaniac without a nose._

_But sometimes, just sometimes, life as a wizard sure gets pretty good._

**Author's Note:**

> Those familiar with Jim Butcher's _The Dresden Files_ may notice my wink to the series at the start. (If you've not read it, do give it a try!)
> 
> I wrote most of this while on public transport. I really hope no one was reading over my shoulder while I wrote. ^^;;
> 
> Also, as it's 1 March 2017 - Happy Birthday, Yurio!
> 
> \---
> 
> tumblr: [erushi](http://erushi.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Feel free to drop by and say hi! :)


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